Harry Potter And The Two Different Worlds
by DemilaMack18
Summary: Harry Potter finds out he belongs to a family distant from Britain.


Chapter 1: The Boy Who Lived And The Girl Who Conquered.

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape or form own the rights to the characters of Harry Potter. As they belong rightfully to J.K. Rowling. And if the description of the appearances of said characters are slightly altered, it is because that is the way I've imagined them to be. However, I do own the rights to those characters that I have created myself and may grant permission of use to others if I choose to. In some cases, spelling mistakes are deliberate, so as to portray a character's accent or language. This disclaimer is applicable to the entire story.

Dedication: To all the Aros, Aces, Aro-Aces and Hispanics out there who were looking for a little something in the original Harry Potter books. But couldn't quite find it.

Author's Note:

Hi everyone, hope you enjoy this first chapter of my first fanfic. Story update schedules will not be set in stone. Reviews will be much appreciated. Updated to fix spelling mistakes and grammar errors.

Chapter 1: The Boy Who Lived And The Girl Who Conquered.

Mrs. Petunia Emmaroonia Dursley and Mr. Vernon Delinnskey Dursley who resided at Number 4, Privet Drive were the most boring people in the entirety of the world and were proud to say so. You wouldn't see them riding motorbikes that fly off into the sky as if they were spaceships or planes. Or getting into cars that did their own navigation towards a passenger's destination. No, they didn't do such strange and mysterious things as they had a zero tolerance policy for rubbish such as this. In fact, the word magic which they called the M-word was considered an obscene curse word in the household of the Dursleys.

Mr. Dursley worked as the director at Grunnings, a drill firm and was an enormous, stocky man with a bold head and very little neck. His stomach was elephant-sized and his moustache completely covered his bottom lip. He had an ugly face; not at all a pleasing sight to the eye and his feet were huge and hairy; like overgrown spider's legs.

Mrs. Dursley was as plump as her husband and had more than enough neck to account for the both of them. This came in handy, as her favourite hobby was to crane over large fences and gates to take a sneaky peek at the neighbours. She had white, wispy hair and a bald patch in the centre of it all. And thin, shrewd-looking lips, horse-like teeth, cold grey eyes and an extremely long nose which definitely looked out of place.

The Dursleys had a small tyke named Dudley, and they truly believed there was no finer boy to be found anywhere else. They were the type of family who had everything they could ever want. But, with that, came a price to pay. For the Dursleys had to conceal a secret; living with the knowledge and fear that someone would one day reveal it. They couldn't stand the thought of someone finding out about their relatives... The Potters. Therefore, Mrs. Dursley pretended that her sister was non-existent and didn't like to speak her name, nor have it mentioned in conversation. For her sister and potato-head of a husband didn't conform to the Dursley way of living. She hadn't seen her sister for years and wasn't at all perturbed by it. Instead, she was really rather glad and hoped things would remain that way. The more distance put between her and Lily, the better off she'd be.

They thought about the looks on their neighbours' faces and the conversations they'd be having if the Potters were to walk down the street they lived on. For the Dursleys knew that they too, had a little boy. However, they'd never actually laid eyes upon him; nor did they want to. The thought of him treading the floors of their house, eating their food and sleeping in one of their bedrooms made them both sick to their stomachs. They knew then, they didn't want their precious little tyke mixing with a commoner such as him.

And only one city away, there existed another family just like the Dursleys. Who lived a life full of the utter mundane. Devoid of any mystery, mayhem or strange mishap. This family was none other than the Herdzwells who lived at Number 9, Ruina Drive.

While they didn't have any abnormal behaviours themselves, they also hated seeing strange behaviours in other people and things. For instance, they'd leave the lights on while they slumbered to keep the misshapen shadows that crept along their walls at bay. And they never watched television, for fear of seeing something normal acting as it shouldn't. With the exception of the news, for they still liked to keep up with politics, sport and other current affairs.

Mr. Garritt Lomton Herdzwell worked as a principal at a school called: "Kempton High, " known for its bad reputation of bullying, fighting and producing the most delinquents anyone has ever seen. He had a long grey beard that reached his stomach and empty grey eyes that held no trace of mirth or joy within them. His head was bold and his face splotched with patches of flaky skin and pimples. His nose was pointy and lips pursed in an expression of pure disdain.

Mrs. Arristiana Prudentine Herdzwell worked from home as a journalist for a big news agency. Often taking pleasure in twisting stories into nasty webs of deceit. She didn't care whose families were affected by the words she penned onto paper; which in turn became forever etched in people's memories. Oh, what hurtful things she wrote.

Mrs. Herdzwell was thin and mean-looking; her violet eyes holding a look of utter hatred within and she had buck-teeth. Her hair was white and brittle as if every strand would fall off at any given moment. As for clothes, this woman loved to wear nothing but dresses coloured in a fusty green.

The Herdzwells had a little girl by the name of Quinnistasia who was the spitting image of her mother. This girl was a spoilt little brat who had only to ask her parents for what she wanted. And like that, they would go to the shops or surprise her when she least expected it.

Their personalities matched their looks; for they held great hatred for all those who were different to themselves. Especially those whom they classed as abnormal. Even those who spoke a language other than English could get on the wrong side of the Herdzwells; as they loathed any material they couldn't comprehend. The Herdzwells and the Dursleys would get along fine if only they knew of each other's existence.

The Herdzwells too, had it all. But indeed, it also came with the cost of a concealed secret. And at great risk of being ridiculed by those who lived close by. Mrs. Herdzwell, like Petunia Dursley had a relative she pretended was non-existent. This happened to be her cousin, Jimena Valentino whom she hadn't met for years and had no real desire to. Jimena had not only one, but four children, three girls and a boy. And that fact alone filled the Herdzwells with dread. They felt terrified as they thought about what their neighbours would say if the Valentinos were to walk down their street. And the thought of even one of those children eating, sleeping and setting foot in their place of residence made both their blood boil. They reached the same conclusion as the Dursleys, wanting very much to shelter their darling daughter from mixing with scum such as this.

So when both of these families arose on the uninteresting Tuesday our story commences, there was nothing about the dismally grey sky outside that would signal that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country... Let alone in neighbouring ones.

Mr. Dursley hummed tunelessly as he dressed in his plain tie and his equally abysmal suit for work, while his wife was happily gossiping and trying to squeeze a loudly yelling Dudley into a blue high-chair. They didn't glance once through a window. However, if they had, they may have glimpsed a large tawny owl fluttering by. Alas, it went unnoticed.

then, 8:30 came around and Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, kissed Mrs. Dursley on the cheek and tried to kiss Dudley but missed. The reason being that he was in full tantrum mode, throwing his serial at each of the walls in turn, and finally smashing the huge glass bowl on the table with a deafening clang. "Oh, little tyke," chuckled Vernon Dursley as he left the house, got into his car and backed slowly out of Number 4, Privet Drive.

Mr. Herdzwell made up his own nonsensical song as he put on his plainest tweed black jacket, pants and leather boots. Arristiana was chittering away happily while trying to coax a bellowing Quinnistasia into a pink high-chair. They were too distracted with their routine to see that an enormous eagle was swooping passed their window.

When 8 O'clock came around he pecked Arristiana on the left cheek, but missed Quinnistasia because she'd successfully spilt both her drink and serial simultaneously during her tantrum storm. "Oh, my little princess," he chortled as he left the house, got quickly in his car and reversed out of Number 9.

Meanwhile, Mr. Dursley had spotted something on the corner of the street. Something that looked very peculiar indeed... A tabby, reading a map. For a split second, Mr. Dursley hadn't realised the scene his eyes had taken in. Then, he jerked his head around to take another look. There was definitely a tabby standing at the corner of Privet drive. But he didn't see a map anywhere. What could he have been thinking? It must have been a mirage; a simple trick of the light. He blinked, then stared fixedly at the cat once again. It stared sternly back at him and he noticed there were strange markings around its eyes. As he peered closer at them, he saw that they faintly traced an outline that seemed a lot like sunglasses. But no, cats don't wear sunglasses either, he thought to himself.

He drove around the corner and up the road, then looked into his mirror at the cat. It was now reading the sign saying: "Privet Drive." No, that cat had been looking at the sign. Cats cannot read signs let alone maps. Mr. Dursley shook himself furiously and banished the tabby from his mind.

As he continued his journey into town, he thought of nothing but a gigantic order of drills he was hoping to get that morning. But once he'd reached the edge of town, drills were thrown out of his mind by something else that seemed entirely out of place. As he sat in the traffic jam waiting, he noticed that there seemed to be a number of strangely-dressed people about… People in cloaks. Something he'd never seen on his way to work before. Mr. Dursley despised anyone who wore funny clothes, the get-ups you saw on today's teens. He thought that this was some stupid new fashion trend. He drummed his fingers steadily on his steering wheel and he laid eyes on a bunch of these funny-looking weirdos who happened to be standing rather close. They were whispering and talking excitedly with each other. And Mr. Dursley was outraged to see that some members in the crowd weren't young teenagers at all. That man had to be ten years his senior and wearing an emerald green cloak too. The nerve of him! Suddenly, a reassuring thought entered his mind. This was some sort of publicity stunt; these people were just collecting or promoting something. Yes, that was the reason why all this was going on.

The traffic moved on and in a couple of minutes Mr. Dursley had pulled into the Grunnings carpark, his mind finally returning to drills.

Mr. Herdzwell had driven halfway down Ruzel Street and was preparing to make the turn-off onto Dinel Road, when something out of the corner of his eye made him pause. Luckily for him, he hadn't reached the motorway yet so there was hardly anyone around. He craned his neck a bit to get a better view. What he saw made him jump out of his skin. There was a golden retriever standing by the curb, reading what appeared to be an enormous-looking instruction manual. However, upon closer inspection, Mr. Herdzwell could see places, even countries. With a sudden shock of realisation, he now knew that what he'd been looking at was no instruction manual, but a map that was cleverly disguised. What was more, the writing he could see was incomprehensible to him as it was in a dialect he knew not. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Yes, there was certainly a golden retriever standing by the curb, but he didn't see any manual or map. He stared hard at the dog and it stared right back, giving him a cold look of utter disdain. As their eyes met, Mr. Herdzwell could have sworn he'd seen swirls of brightly coloured mist, and he felt as if he was being sucked in by some unseen force of nature, it was as if those eyes were bottomless whirl pools that never ceased to spin. But how could that be? Dogs don't have supernatural eyes and that mist is probably tears, or else it had some sort of incurable disease. Mr. Herdzwell chided himself.

He made the turn-off onto Dinel Road and peered back at the golden retriever in his rear view mirror. Now the dog was reading the sign that said: Turn right onto Dinel Road. No, it's looking at the sign, dogs cannot read signs or anything for that matter. Mr. Herdzwell chastised himself. He must be imagining things, why did his eyes have to play tricks on him. And especially now, what inconvenient timing. Mr. Herdzwell shook himself slightly to clear his mind and began driving once more. Thinking of all the students he would be telling off that day and how many parents he'd have to call.

While sitting in a particularly long traffic jam in the city centre, waiting for the congestion to pass, he saw something that distracted him completely from his thoughts. Mr. Herdzwell noticed that there were many strangely dressed people milling around... People wearing what appeared to be ball gowns that were shimmering in all colours of the rainbow. They were wearing hats and scarves to match their gowns. Mr. Herdzwell was extremely thankful that his school Kempton High had the plainest uniform in the history of the universe, for he deeply despised anyone who dared to wear clothes such as these. So stupid were the make-overs you saw on today's adolescents. Why, they seemed to be getting crazier and crazier as time passed by. He supposed that this was some dumb new fashion fad that young people were experimenting with. Mr. Herdzwell began to tap his fingernails in a timeless rhythm on his dashboard, staring at a bunch of those absurd-looking freaks who were standing in close proximity. They were talking in low voices dramatically to one another. His blood began to boil as he spotted people who couldn't possibly be young adolescents. Why, that woman appeared to be at least twenty years Arristiana's senior. And wearing one of those shimmering rainbow gowns too. The absolute nerve she had! He could no longer stand the sight of them. And then, a realisation dawned upon him. They were just a bunch of campaigners holding some sort of event or protest on the streets to grab people's attention. Yes, that would be the reason for all this abnormality.

The traffic finally chugged on its way and within a couple of minutes Mr. Herdzwell had reached the Kempton High carpark, his mind firmly back on his job. He suddenly found that a feeling of complete calm was sweeping over him. He was ready to face the day that lay ahead.

Mr. Dursley always liked to sit with his back facing his office window which was on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he would have seen that many owls were taking to the skies, flying about in broad daylight. Therefore, finding it harder to concentrate on drills. But just because he didn't see them, it didn't stop many people down in the streets below from noticing. They gazed in shock with their mouths agape and their fingers pointing as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never laid eyes upon one before. But there were the few who had only ever caught glimpses of them at nightfall, flying from tree to tree; or mother owls flying back to their nests with prey clenched in their beaks. However, Mr. Dursley had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning.

He yelled at fifteen different people, made several telephone calls of extreme importance and did some more shouting. His spirits were pretty high and he was feeling rather cheerful, until around about lunch time, when he decided he'd stretch his legs and go to the nearest bakery to buy something to eat. For his stomach had sounded a tremendous rumble.

The people wearing cloaks had escaped from memory, but he recalled them as soon as he saw a group standing next to the bakery. He gave an angry look while walking passed. An uneasy, queasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. This bunch, were whispering excitedly also and as far as he could see, there was no cashbox or collecting tin anywhere.

It was on his way back passed, a large doughnut and a sandwich in a brown paper bag clutched in his hands, that he caught snatches of what they were saying. "The potters... It's true... That's what I heard... Yes, their son, Harry..." Mr. Dursley stood stock still, dead in his tracks as fear flooded his entire body. He glanced back at the group of whisperers, wanting to say something, but thought it was better not to. He ran back across the road, hurried straight up to his office, shouted at his secretary not to disturb him, grabbed his telephone and had almost finished dialling his home phone number... When he changed his train of thought and put the telephone down with a heavy clang. He patted his moustache, thinking to himself. No, he was being dumb, the name Potter wasn't so unusual or uncommon. There were bound to be loads of people with the surname Potter, who had a boy named Harry. As a matter of fact, Mr. Dursley wasn't sure that his nephew's name was even Harry. Why, he'd never even seen him. It might have been Harvid or Herold. There wasn't any point in worrying his wife as she always got so upset and angry at a single mention of her sister. Of course, he could imagine how she felt and didn't blame her in the slightest. If he'd had a sister like that, he would have been ashamed of her as well. Alas, those people in cloaks were still on his mind.

He found it much more difficult to focus his mind on drills that afternoon. And when he finally left work at 5 O'clock, he was still very preoccupied, until he bumped right into someone who was standing outside the door. "Oh, sorry," he grunted, as the tiny man tripped and was about to fall. The tiny man regained his balance just in time. It took a couple of seconds for Mr. Dursley to realise that the stranger had a violet cloak on. The man didn't seem upset in the slightest bit, given that he'd almost been knocked over. In fact, the exact opposite happened. His face split into a wide grin and he said in a squeaky, high-pitched voice that made passers-by gape in amazement: "Oh, there's nothing to apologise for, my dear sir. For not a single thing could upset me on this glorious day. Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has been banished at last. Even muggles like you should be celebrating this happy, joyful day!" And with that, he hugged Mr. Dursley around the waist and simply walked away. Mr. Dursley stood there unable to move. A complete stranger had just given him a hug and had called him a muggle; whatever that word meant. He was shaken and at that moment, had decided that it was high-time to get out of this place. He dashed to his car and drove off home, hoping in all honesty that he was imagining things, which he'd never in his life hoped before; for he didn't approve of imagination and creativity.

Mr. Herdzwell liked to draw the curtains over his office window and sit with his back facing it, so as to avoid seeing any abnormal activity going on out of doors. His office was on the ground floor of the building and was really rather gloomy, as it rarely saw any sunlight. Therefore, he didn't see the flocks of eagles swooshing passed. However, the people in the street below did and gaped in open-mouthed amazement. For none of them had ever seen so much as an eaglet before, let alone a fully grown one, whether it was day or night. Mr. Herdzwell however, had a perfectly ordinary, eagle-free morning.

He punished ten different students for various things such as punching a classmate, pulling people's hair and attempting to draw on the teacher's face with charcoal. Then, made fifteen calls to inform parents what their child had done, and did some more shouting. This time directed at the teachers, some of whom were throwing paint onto students' heads, stretching gum over the desks and attempting to write on the whiteboard with pencil. He was in a particularly cheerful mood, his spirits soaring. That is, until about 12 o'clock in the afternoon, when he decided to go to the nearest fast-food place to buy himself some fries and a drink for lunch. He had quite forgotten about the people who had been wearing those frivolous ball gowns, until he saw a large group of them next to the McDonalds. He looked at them with eyes full of hatred as he walked inside the restaurant. He didn't know the reason, but these people made him feel agitated, anxious and unsettled . This lot, were also chattering away in excited voices amongst themselves. And as Mr. Herdzwell looked around, he was shocked to find that there was no banner or flag to be seen. As he came out of McDonalds and walked back passed the chattering people, fries and drink in his hands, he began to hear snatches of conversation: "¿Has escuchado sobre los Valentinos... Tienes razón... Yo sé, es lo qué he escuchado... Sí, su niñita, Lucía..." Mr. Herdzwell froze, routed to the spot. He couldn't understand a word they were saying, and yet, he had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was sure that he'd heard someone mention a name. But before he had time to dwell on it, he heard more snatches of conversation; and this time he could understand every word. "Have you heard about the Valentinos... You're right, it's true... I know, that's what I've heard... Yes, their little girl, Lucía..." And with a jolt of realisation that sent his mind reeling, he thought he knew who they were referring to. Fear and panic began coursing through him. He gazed back at them, wanting to join in on their conversations. Then, he thought that it was better not to. Mr. Herdzwell dashed across the street, rushed straight into his office and pinned up a note telling everyone not to bother him. He rummaged in his pocket and drew out a mobile phone. He was just about to hit the call button, when he decided it wasn't the best option; putting his phone back in his pocket. He stroked his beard and scratched his head, his mind replaying the conversation he'd heard. No, he was being such a numb-nut, the name Valentino wasn't so drastically uncommon. Especially in the place where that family lived. For all he knew, there were probably millions of people with Valentino as a surname, who also happened to have a daughter with the name Lucía. All the same, he didn't even know if his niece was called Lucía. It could have been Lucy or Lucyndah. So he saw no reason to worry Mrs. Herdzwell just yet. She always got extremely enraged and distressed at every mention of her cousin. He couldn't blame her if he tried, If he'd had to deal with a cousin or relative like that, he would feel utterly ashamed and would do exactly what his wife had done. Which was to cut all ties with that particular relative and pretend they never existed. But nonetheless, his mind kept dwelling on those people in ball gowns.

He found that he couldn't concentrate very well that afternoon. And when he finally left Kempton High at 5:30, he was still very absent-minded. So much so, that he ran into a person who had been standing outside the glass front doors. "Er, aherm, sorry about that," Mr. Herdzwell grunted, as the woman almost stumbled. However, she managed to grab the door in the nick of time, as it was still ajar.

It took him a couple of seconds to realise that she had on a shimmering gown that was mostly coloured lilac, with the edges in all colours of the rainbow. She didn't look in the slightest bit upset. For her sparkling blue eyes lit up with joy and she said in an unusual voice that made people around them stare: "My kind Sir. There is no need to apologise. For nothing could diminish my joy on this wonderful day. Rejoice, for the dark lord has at long last been vanquished. Even a cerpter such as you should be celebrating on this marvellous, glorious day..." And with that, she hugged him, gave him a kiss on both cheeks, and walked away smiling.

He stood very still and didn't move a muscle. He had just been hugged and kissed by a total stranger and called a cerpter. He didn't know what that meant in the slightest. He was shocked and shaking, but at long last, Mr. Herdzwell found strength to make his legs move again. So he ran toward his car, got in and drove quickly home, hoping that his mind had simply played tricks on him during the course of that day, which he had never hoped before, because he certainly didn't accept such abominations as creativity and imagination.

As he parked his car in the drive of number 4, the first thing Mr. Dursley saw which didn't improve his mood, was the tabby cat he'd seen that morning. It was now perched on his garden wall and he was definitely certain it was the same one. It had the same markings around its eyes. "Shoo!" yelled Mr. Dursley as loudly as he could. It didn't move, just looked at him coldly. Was this normal cat behaviour? Mr. Dursley pondered aloud.

Trying to gather his wits about him, he let himself in with the house key. He was still determined not to mention any of the day's happenings to Petunia.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, perfectly ordinary day. She told him while they were eating dinner, about Mrs. Next Door's never-ending issues with her husband and kids. And how Dudley had committed a new word to memory, shan't. Mr. Dursley tried to act as he normally would, but it took all his effort; for if he behaved unusually, even for a minute second, Petunia's sharp eyes and strained ears would pick it up. Fortunately for him, all went well.

When he'd tucked Dudley in and had turned off his bedroom light, he went into the living room to catch the final report on the evening news.

"And lastly, bird watchers from all around have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving in a most mysterious manner today. Although it is very well known that owls usually hunt at nightfall and are rarely ever seen in broad daylight; there have been millions of sightings of these incredible birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts cannot explain why the owls have changed their sleeping patterns so rapidly..." There was a pause, as the newsreader grinned. "Interestingly intriguing. And now, over to Jaimey McNesson for the weather. Are there going to be any more tirades of owls on the loose tonight, Jaimey? "Well Jonno, I'm not too sure about that. But it isn't only the owls that have been acting up. Viewers as far and wide as Kent, Yorkshire and manchester have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised them on Sunday, they've had an onslaught of shooting stars. Perhaps there might be the odd chance that people have been celebrating bond fire night a little earlier than we'd expect. It's not until next week though. But I can promise you all, that it'll be a wet night, tonight." Mr. Dursley sat rigid with shock in his armchair. Shooting stars, all through Britain? Owls flying during the day? Mysterious people in cloaks everywhere and a whisper; a whisper about the Potters.

Mrs. Dursley walked into the living room carrying a tray with two cups of earl gray tea. It was then, that he couldn't stand it any longer. He would have to say something or else it was going to bother him all night, maybe longer. He nervously cleared his throat: "Aherm, Petunia dear. Have you heard any news from your sister lately?" As to be expected, she looked at him, shock and anger in her eyes. And that was because they usually pretended her sister didn't exist. "No," she snapped. "Why," "Er... Just some funny stuff on the news I saw," He mumbled. "Owls, shooting stars, I saw a lot of weird-looking people in town today," "So," she said crisply. "Well, it just crossed my mind and... I thought it would be something to do with... You know, her kind." Mrs. Dursley tightly pursed her lips into a thin line and took a sip from her mug of tea. Mr. Dursley, pondered on whether he dared to mention the name Potter to his wife. And he decided he wasn't going to take that risk. Instead, he said in what he thought was a casual tone of voice. "Their son. Well he'd be just as old as Dudley, wouldn't he?" "Hmmm, I'd say so," said Mrs. Dursley briskly. "What's his name again? Harvid isn't it?" "It's Harry. It's a disgusting, common name in my opinion," "Yes, I agree," he said, heart sinking rapidly. They said nothing more as they went up to bed.

When Mrs. Dursley had left the room, he crept up to the bedroom window to get a better look outside, just in case he saw a shooting star or something else that was obviously out of place. He looked down into the garden and saw that the cat was still there. It was peering down Privet drive, as if it was expecting something. Then, he looked up and saw a flock of owls perched high in the tops of an old oak tree in the neighbours' yard. They appeared to be spreading out their wings; preparing to take flight once more. He jumped and almost screamed, but caught himself just in time. He quickly slammed the window shut with a bang and drew the curtains over it. Mr. Dursley felt sick to his stomach and wished he'd never looked through that pane of glass in the first place. Then, he wouldn't have seen those wretched owls and that horrid tabby. Finally, he put his face in his hands and just stood there mulling it all over in his mind.

Was he imagining things again? Were his eyes playing more tricks on him? Could all these seemingly unrelated events be connected to the Potters? If these events were connected and the news of them being related to a pair of freaks was to spread... Well, he didn't think he could stand it.

Seconds before Mrs. Dursley arrived, he had hurriedly straightened himself up and was getting into bed. The door opened and shut and Mrs. Dursley was now laying beside him and had drifted off instantly.

However, poor old Mr. Dursley lay awake for hours, dealing with the uneasy feeling in his stomach and turning the day's events over in his head yet again. His last thought of comfort as he finally began to drift off, was that even if the Potters were involved in all this craziness, there was absolutely no reason for them to come near him and his wife. They knew full well what he and Petunia thought of them and their kind. He couldn't see any possibility for himself and Petunia to get caught up in anything abnormal. He gave a great yawn and rolled over. It couldn't possibly have any effect on them. How extremely wrong he was.

As Mr. Herdzwell reversed his car into the drive of number 9, he spotted something that made his spirits sink to the floor. It was the golden retriever from that morning and what was more, it was sitting atop his stony garden wall. With a churning feeling in the pit of his stomach, Mr. Herdzwell knew that it was the same one. He could see its mist-filled eyes swirling like spinning tops. "Shoo! scram! skedaddle!" He bellowed at the golden retriever. All it did was bark and give him the evil eyes. Then, a sudden jet of mist fired from one of them and hit him squarely in the face; the pain was unbearable. This couldn't be normal behaviour for a dog, could it? Mr. Herdzwell mused aloud, as he unlocked the door with his key and ran inside to tend to his face wounds. He was determined to keep his mouth shut and not tell Arristiana anything about that day's series of events.

Mrs. Herdzwell had had a pleasant day full of nothing but the mundane. At dinner, she rambled on about Mr. Next Door's arguments with his wife and how they were on the brink of becoming divorcees. Then, she told him about how little dear, darling Quinnistasia had memorised a new phrase, I won't. Mr. Herdzwell did a pretty good job of hiding all his pent-up emotions. For on the outside, he appeared to be his usual self. But it took all his efforts, for the emotions within him were strong and were threatening to take over at any moment.

After he bade Quinnistasia goodnight, had tucked her in and turned off her light, he went into the living room to watch the end of the 9 O'clock news.

"And last of all, we've had bird watchers from everywhere report to us, that lately the country's eagles have been acting very strangely. Everyone knows that they usually hunt for food in the day and it is rare to catch a glimpse of them at any time. However, there have been billions of sightings of these tremendous birds since nightfall on Sunday and sunrise yesterday. Experts cannot fathom why the eagles have changed their habits so suddenly..." There was a moment's pause, as a grin etched itself upon the newsreader's face. "Amazingly mysterious, and now crossing over to Henrietta Turnbelle for the weather forecast. Are there going to be more torrents of eagles flying about the skies tonight, Henrietta?" "Well Heylene, I cannot be certain of that, but the eagles aren't the only strange things people have seen as of late. For viewers, far and wide from various locations such as Oxford, Bedfordshire and London have been calling in to tell me that instead of the huge thunder storm I promised on Saturday; they've had a tidal wave of brightly coloured miniature shooting suns. There might be the slightest possibility that people have been celebrating the day of the dragon a little too early and couldn't wait to cause some major excitement. The real day of celebration is next week Friday. But I can promise everyone, that you're in for a very stormy night, tonight."

Mr. Herdzwell was stuck to his seat, frozen with utter terror. Miniature shooting suns all over the place? Eagles flying about the skies at all times? People in wretched ball gowns? And whispered conversations; all about the Valentinos.

Just then, Mrs. Herdzwell traipsed into the living room holding a tray with two cups of steaming peppermint tea. And finally, at long last, Mr. Herdzwell gave into his emotions. He simply couldn't stand going to bed with such a plagued mind. Sleep would never come to him then; he was sure of that. So, plucking up all his courage; he managed to say in a quavering voice: "Ah... er... aherm... Arristiana darling, have you heard anything from your cousin as of late?" Suddenly, a great change overcame Mrs. Herdzwell. Her eyes began to redden, her lips formed themselves into a thin, menacing line and a scarlet flush began creeping down from her forehead to her cheeks and chin. She was now the perfect picture of a white hot wroth of rage. And it was to be expected, for they usually kept themselves under the pretence that her cousin didn't exist. "No, why in hell would you ask such a question?" she shrieked in burning fury. "Well, it's just... I've seen freaky stuff on the news just now," he grumbled feebly. "Brightly coloured miniature shooting suns, eagles traversing the skies at all times. I happened to see some horrid-looking people in ball gowns in the city today," "And! what in the blazing! flames! does it have to do with my cousin?" she yelled back, fire brimming in her eyes and her voice fluctuating from loud to deafening. "Well, it just dawned on me and... I was thinking that all those creepy, abnormal events might have been linked to... You know, her bunch of people."

Mrs. Herdzwell took a sip of tea through thinly pursed lips, and Mr. Herdzwell wondered whether he should mention the name Valentino to his wife. As soon as the thought occurred, he banished it out of his mind. There was no way he was going to mention it, that would just get her even more worked up. Instead, he said in a would-be casual tone. "Well, their daughter. She'd be just about the same age as our Quinny, right?" "Humph, I should think so," she snapped. "Her name is Lucyndah, isn't it?" "No, it's Lucía. It's an exotic, abnormal name for people who don't belong in this world. And that's my opinion on it," "Well, I have to agree," He replied, spirits rapidly lowering. All conversation ceased at that point, as they walked to their bedroom.

When Mrs. Herdzwell had calmed down somewhat and had left the room to brush her teeth, Mr. Herdzwell walked slowly over to the window and cautiously lifted up the curtains. He was curious to see if there was anything abnormal freely roaming the streets and skies; which was a most peculiar feeling for him; as he usually ran and hid from such things.

He looked down, and there, still sitting atop his stony garden wall was the golden retriever with the mist-filled eyes. They seemed to be whirling and foaming more than ever and sometimes, jets of bright red and blue mist would shoot out of them towards the window. When the mist calmed somewhat, Mr. Herdzwell noticed that its eyes were beginning to emit a faint glow like a jack-o-lantern. It was then, that he decided he could look at it no longer and instead looked up towards the sky. In that very instant, he wished he could erase everything, for what he saw made his skin tingle with very unpleasant hypersensitivity. In the sky, were hundreds and thousands of brightly-coloured, soft-feathered eagles and it looked as if they were engaged in some sort of moonlit dance. They were swooping and flapping, gathering in flocks to circle around number 9 and other neighbouring houses and finally spreading out in single-file; racing each other through the air and away into the distance.

Mr. Herdzwell gave a tiny groan, tottered to and fro, then crashed to the ground in a dead faint.

When he heard Arristiana's footsteps he sat bolt upright, quickly got to his feet and staggered to bed. The door opened and closed and Arristiana got into bed beside him. She fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

But poor Mr. Herdzwell lay awake for hours on-end, dealing with the thoughts and the pain in his head and the tight knot in the pit of his stomach. That day's events would not stop themselves from replaying over and over again, no matter how hard he tried to keep them at bay. Then, the questions came at him in full force, making the knot feel like an enormous boulder. Was he hallucinating? Were his eyes experiencing mirages more frequently? Could these strange and creepy events be linked to Arristiana's cousin Jimena Valentino and her kind? If the word got out that they were tied in relation to a bunch of buffoons; well he'd rather die. At least then he wouldn't have to hear all the terrible things people would say. And anyway, the Valentinos knew very well what he and Arristiana thought of them. So, there would be no reason at all for them to ever pay a visit.

Mr. Herdzwell suddenly felt mentally and physically drained of energy. Evidently, all that eerie abnormality had left him high and dry. He now needed sleep in order to recuperate and gain back what he'd lost. His final thought of comfort before he achieved this was that everything would go right back to normal the next day. He gave a loud belch for no apparent reason, yawned an almighty yawn and rolled over onto his left side. There's no way we could get tangled up in anything unusual. The Valentinos couldn't possibly effect this little family of ours. But oh, how he was most mistaken in thinking this.

Mr. Dursley may have drifted off into a fitful sleep filled with nightmares about shooting stars and tawny brown owls, but the tabby on the wall was showing not a single sign of tiring out. It was sitting rather rigidly, as if it were a life-like statue. Its eyes were unblinking and were looking fixedly upon the far right corner of Privet Drive. It gave not even a shake when a front door slammed shut two streets away. Nor, when three flocks of owls swooped speedily away overhead. As a matter of fact, it was just after midnight when the cat made its first movement. A man revealed himself on the corner the tabby's eyes had been set upon. He had appeared so swiftly and noiselessly; you would have thought he'd just shot up out of the earth. The tabby's tale gave a little twitch and its eyes narrowed slightly. For nothing and no one with the likes of this man had been spotted before in Privet Drive history. He was quite tall, slender and extremely aged by the judgement of the silver in his hair and beard, which were both at a perfect length to be tucked into his belt. He was wearing a bright purple cloak which swirled along the ground behind him as he walked, long violet robes, as well as boots that were high at the heels and buckled along the sides. His light blue eyes were sparkling and bright behind half-moon spectacles. His nose was rather long and rather crooked, as if it had suffered at least two breaks. The man's name, was none other than Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore had not yet realised that he'd arrived upon a street where everything about his identity, from his name to his clothes and boots was most unwelcome. He was busily rummaging through his cloak for something. However, he noticed he was being watched because he slowly turned around and peered up at the cat, which was at the opposite end of the street, staring at him. For some unapparent reason, seeing the cat quite amused him. He chortled away to himself and said: "Well, it should have dawned on me already." Now, he had found what he'd been looking for. It was stowed away safely in his inside pocket. Its appearance was like that of a silver cigarette lighter, which he flicked open, held up in the air and clicked. The closest street lamp went out with a little poof. He clicked it once more and the second lamp fizzled into darkness. Click, click, click, it went until all the lamps were unlit. All in all, he clicked the put-outer twelve times, until there remained only two tiny pinpoints of light in the distance. They were of course, the eyes of the tabby watching him. If anyone dared to look out of their window at this time of night; even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't have been able to see a single thing happening down on the pavement below.

Dumbledore slid the put-outer back into the inside pocket of his cloak and plodded off down the street, heading for number 4, where he took a seat on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but let a few moments slip by before speaking to it. "Fancy seeing you here at this time of night Professor McGonagall." He turned to his left to smile at the tabby cat, but it had vanished. Now, he found he was smiling at a woman with a severe-looking face and wearing squarely-shaped glasses, exactly matching the markings that had been etched around the cat's eyes. And she also had on a cloak shaded in a vivid emerald green. Her jet black hair was tied in a tight bun atop her head. She appeared to have a distinctly ruffled look about her. "Erh, how did you know I was here?" she questioned, a look of bafflement crossing her face. "My dear professor, please correct me if I'm mistaken, but the reason I knew it was you, was because I've never seen a cat sit so rigidly. I have a feeling that is not normal cat behaviour," "Well, I can tell you, you'd be quite stiff and rigid if you'd been sitting on top of a brick wall all the day long," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "All day? When all those celebrations were happening? Why, you could have been attending one of them and having a jolly good time. I must have passed a dozen of them myself on my journey here." Professor McGonagall gave an angry sniff. "Oh, of course. Everyone is celebrating a good deal," she said in an impatient tone. "You'd think that people would be a bit more careful, but, oh no, even the muggles have noticed and were notified that something strange is going on. There was footage of it on their news." And with that, she jerked her head back towards the living room window of Number 4, which was in complete darkness. "I heard it all. Shooting stars and flocks of owls pervading the night sky. They aren't completely stupid you know. They were bound to notice something if it's unusual enough. Well, shooting stars in Kent. I bet that would have been Dedalus Diggle. He never had much common sense in him," "Well, you cannot put the blame entirely on them," replied Dumbledore gently. "We've had next-to-nothing to celebrate for eleven years," "And I realise that," Professor McGonagall said, clearly agitated. "But that is no reason why we should lose our heads over it. And our sanity too as a matter of fact. People are being extremely careless. Walking along the streets in broad daylight and still dressed in the clothes of our kind, not even bothering to disguise themselves. Swapping rumours with one another." It was then, that she gave Dumbledore a long, sideways look. As if she was expecting him to spill the beans on some of the rumours he had inevitably heard, or else, to tell her something different. But, his lips remained firmly sealed. So, she carried on. "A superbly spectacular thing it would be, if, on the very day Voldemort appears to have vanished at last, the whole population of muggles found out about our world and eventually managed to uncover our identities. We'd be in a right fix then, I should think. I suppose Voldemort really has disappeared Dumbledore?" She enquired. "Well, I have to say, it certainly appears to be that way. And we have a lot to be grateful for." Dumbledore thought he might ask professor McGonagall if she'd like a sherbet lemon, which was a muggle sweet he rather liked. But by the look on his colleagues' face, he thought that perhaps now wasn't the time for such things. "Well, as I was saying. Even if Voldemort has disappeared..." "My dear professor, forgive me for my interruption. But I have to say, I'm really rather proud of you," "And why would that be?" she asked curiously. "It is simply because you've managed to say his name. It gets so confusing with all this You-Know-Who nonsense. And for eleven long years, I've been trying to get people to say the name. Voldemort!" he half yelled into the still night air. Professor McGonagall flinched only a little. But Dumbledore didn't notice, as he was too busy pulling apart two sherbet lemons that were stuck to each other. "So you see, I haven't thought of any reason why we should be frightened of speaking it," "Yes, I know you haven't." Professor McGonagall replied, her voice filled with both exasperation and admiration. "You are different from the rest of us. We all know that you're the only one Voldemort was ever frightened of, for he doesn't seem to be afraid of anybody else," "Well, you do flatter me very much. But Voldemort has powers I don't and will never have. Not in this lifetime or the next one, if there is an afterlife," "Well, that's only because... You're too full of nobility to ever seek them, let alone attempt to use them," "It's very fortunate that I have the darkness to hide my face in. I haven't blushed like this since Madam Pumphrey said she liked the way my brand new earmuffs looked on me." Professor McGonagall gave Dumbledore another of her sharp looks and said: "Well, the flocks of owls are nothing in comparison to the rumours flying about like whirlwinds. You know what they're all saying. About how he was vanquished, about what finally sent him over the edge and stopped him." And now, it appeared that Professor McGonagall had finally reached the subject she had been wanting to discuss for so long. The exact and very real reason why she'd been sitting atop a cold brick wall all day and well into the night. For the piercing stare that she now fixed on Dumbledore had never been as intense as it was at that moment. It was absolutely clear that whatever they were all saying, she wasn't going to buy into until Albus Dumbledore himself told her that what she'd heard was true. Not some fanciful tale of events someone had cleverly thought up.

Dumbledore however, was distracted by choosing his next sherbet lemon and didn't answer her. "What they're saying," she continued. "Is that the night before, Voldemort showed up in Godrick's Hollow and was searching for the Potters. And the rumour is that poor Lilly and James Potter are... are.. That they were killed. Murdered by the hands of Voldemort himself. Dumbledore lowered his head in a solemn, sombre nod. Professor McGonagall let out a gasp of shock. "Lilly and James? It's simply unbelievable. I didn't want to believe that it was true. Oh, Albus, what a tragedy this is." Dumbledore reached out a hand and gently patted her shoulder. Then, he went a little further and put a loose arm around her in a hug of friendship and understanding. For they both knew Lilly and James well and the news of their passing had drowned their hearts in such sadness, that it could not be kept to oneself. "I know, I know," he said in a voice of heavy-set lead. Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she pressed on: "Well, that isn't all. They've been saying that he tried to kill their son Harry. But he couldn't, he couldn't kill the baby boy. Nobody knows yet why or how the boy was still able to survive. Not even what actually happened to Voldemort. But they've been saying, that when he tried to kill the child, something happened that Voldemort's power couldn't handle. And that is the reason why he vanished." Dumbledore gave another glum nod. "That is also t-true?" wavered Professor McGonagall uncertainly. "After all that he's done, everyone he's murdered, he couldn't kill, let alone touch a seemingly defenseless little boy? Well, that's tremendously astonishing. Of all the things and the people to stop him. But, how upon the earth did Harry manage survival?" "Well, I'm afraid to say that we can only guess the answer to that question, and even then, we may never find out. But, you know, there's even more to the story," "Really? What more is there?" she queried, looking perplexed. "Our sources claim that Voldemort murdered another family two weeks prior to the Potters. This family was known as the Valentinos who lived in Spain in a little-known wizarding city called Santa Trinidad. Nicknamed Santa Trini by the locals. He was able to target Jimena and Martín, but again, not their youngest child;a girl named Lucía. They had three other children, but luckily they'd been dropped off at a relatives' house that very morning. Jimena and Martín both fought bravely. However, Martín was killed in a matter of minutes while his wife Jimena was tortured into insanity and had to be rushed to St. Mungos. When he attempted to curse Lucía, it rebounded and hit him in the chest. I'm afraid, that is all the knowledge I have." he paused, lost in thought. "But how did he manage to attack two babies within a short space of time? And to think that they could have survived all this," "Yes, I know. And I am yet to find out how he did it or how the two are connected. But I can tell you that both babies have lightning-shaped scars. Lucía's is on her chest, right where her heart beats and Harry's is on his forehead," sighed Dumbledore.

Professor McGonagall took out a red-laced handkerchief from a pocket in her cloak and gently dabbed at her eyes underneath her spectacles. Dumbledore sniffed loudly as he pulled out a golden watch and carefully inspected it. This watch was extremely odd indeed. It had twelve little hands, but absolutely no numbers. Instead, there were miniature planets moving around the edges, spaced out at regular intervals. But Dumbledore seemed to comprehend it, because he put the watch back into his pocket and remarked: "Hagrid's quite late, isn't he. I suppose he informed you I'd be arriving here by the way," "Yes, of course. He told me this morning," she replied. "And I hope that you will at least tell me, why you are here of all the places to be?" "I have come here to bring Harry to his aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon Dursley. They are in fact, the only living family he has left. So far as I know," "You don't mean... You cannot possibly be referring to the people living in this very house!" she cried, jumping up furiously and pointing both indexes at number 4. "Dumbledore, you simply cannot. I've been looking at them all day long. These people are not a bit like us in the least. And they have this son of theirs, why I saw him kicking his mother while they were walking up the street. Telling her to hurry up and get to the sweet shop. So he could buy all the lollies and toffees he wants. Imagine that, Harry Potter; living here," "It's the best place for him that I could possibly find. His aunt and uncle will be able to explain the situation when he has grown a little older. I have written a letter for them." he said gravely. "A letter, you've written a letter. To be frankly honest Dumbledore, that isn't the best communication method. After all, you cannot explain everything in writing." And with that, she sat back down on the wall feeling rather drained. "You see, these people will never understand him. He'll be quite famous now, a legend for certain. Why, it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if in future today was known as Harry Potter day. Harry will be featured in hundreds of books. And, most importantly, every single child in our world will know his name," "That's exactly it," replied Dumbledore, wearing a serious look on his face. "It is more than enough to fill a boy's imagination. Famous before he has learnt how to talk and walk? Famous for something that will not be in his memory? Can you not see how he'd be better off here? Living a normal life away from our world and the fame until he's ready to receive it?" "And what of Lucía?" she enquired. "She'll have to face the same fate unfortunately. I'm sure she'll be ready to take the fame and re-join our kind when she's grown a little older, for she's equally as famous as Harry. She'll be staying with her uncle and Aunt. Mrs. and Mr. Herdzwell." Professor McGonagall opened and closed her mouth and decided not to say what had just gone through her head. She took a great gulp of air and managed to say: "Yes, yes of course. But how on earth is Harry supposed to arrive here?" She suddenly peered at Dumbledore's cloak looking for a boy-sized bump in it. "Hagrid's got him. And with any luck he will arrive here shortly," "Erm, do you think it a wise idea to trust Hagrid with an important task such as this one?" she queried. "I could, and would trust Hagrid with my life," was his reply. "I didn't say he hasn't a good heart. But you cannot deny the fact that oftentimes he can become rather careless. He has quite a tendency to... What in the blazes was that?" A low rumbling in the distance had shattered the silent night and they'd both heard it. Both sets of eyes peered up and down the street in search of headlights. The sound peaked at a deafening crescendo, as they both looked skyward. An enormous motorbike tumbled out of the air and landed in front of them at a safe distance. The motorbike was nothing compared to the man who rode it.

He was twice the usual height and five times the usual width. Simply too big to be accepted. He was completely wild too. With masses of long, jet black hair and beard that hid most of his face and was bushy. His hands were as big as dust bin lids and his feet in leather boots looked like baby dolphins. There was a tiny bundle of blankets held securely in his muscled arms. Dumbledore was quite relieved to see Hagrid had finally arrived. "Professor Dumbledore sir, I just borrowed this bike 'ere from Sirius Black," "Ah, I was wondering about that," replied Dumbledore. "I got 'im 'ere Sir," said Hagrid, getting off the bike. "I hope there weren't any problems?" "Absolutely none Sir. House was pri'y much a wreck, but I got 'im out unharmed before the muggle crowds gathered. Ee fell asleep just before we flew over Bristol." Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore leaned forward over the bundle to take a look. There was definitely a baby boy inside, but he was barely visible. Beneath a single tuft of black hair was the aforementioned scar where Voldemort's curse had struck. Everyone knew that he would bare that scar for life. "Dumbledore, couldn't you do something about that?" asked Professor McGonagall. "No, I don't think so. But even if I had the means to, I wouldn't. For scars can come in handy. Why, I have one on my left knee that is a perfectly accurate map of the london underground. Right Hagrid, I suppose we'd better get this done and dusted. Give him to me please." Hagrid gave Harry a wet, scratchy kiss, then placed the bundle in Dumbledore's arms and he turned towards number 4. "Goodbye 'Arry," said Hagrid, then burried his face in a dirty handkerchief he'd quickly pulled from his coat pocket. Professor McGonagall seeing how miserable he was, patted him on the arm. "I know it's all very sad Hagrid, but we mustn't make too much noise, or the muggles will wake," she whispered urgently, as Dumbledore reached the doorstep of number 4. He took out the letter he'd written, tucked it into the blankets and laid Harry delicately on the doorstep; then re-joined the others. They looked at the bundle for a whole minute; each lost in their own grief. Tears streamed down Hagrid's face onto the handkerchief, McGonagall blinked about a dozen times, and the merry blue light that was usually twinkling in Dumbledore's eyes had fizzled away. "Well, we have nothing more to do here. I've got another important meeting to attend," "Yur, I'd better take Sirius Black's bike back to him. Will see you both laterr," said Hagrid through sniffs.

He climbed back onto the motorbike and within minutes he was fading into the distance, roaring away into the night. "I'm sure I'll see you soon professor McGonagall." She only blew her nose in response. He retrieved the put-outer and returned twelve speeding balls of light back to their lamps, so that Privitt drive was bathed in an eerie orange glow. He could just make out the form of a tabby slinking away into the night. He could see the bundle of blankets too. "Good luck Harry," he said, as he disappeared with a swirl of his cloak.

Mr. Herdzwell was enveloped in a nightmarish world full of shooting suns and large brightly-coloured eagles, but the dog on his garden wall was wide awake and alert. Peering down the street, waiting. Suddenly, it spotted a man walking down Ruina Drive right towards it. This man seemed somehow familiar, but the golden retriever couldn't remember where it had seen his face before. Then, a name surfaced in its mind, Albus Dumbledore. Yes, it recognised this name and then remembered seeing him at that school called Hogwarts, when it had visited Britain ten years prior. Dumbledore stopped walking and pulled his put-outer from the inside pocket of his cloak. He clicked it fourteen times and light after light disappeared from the street lamps of Ruina Drive. Then, feeling eyes upon him once again, turned around to face the dog. "Well, I didn't expect to see you here Señora Delenita. May I use a translation spell to better understand you?" "Sí, por supuesto," she replied. When it appeared Dumbledore didn't show any sign of understanding her, she gave a nod to clarify. "Traducio," he whispered. Now, he'd be able to understand her when she spoke. "As I was saying. I wasn't expecting to see you here," "Ner, I dare say you didern't," replied a smiling Berg. She was round and had rubbery thick, but soft skin. She had a kindly face and merry eyes that sparkled even when there was no light. In fact, they were the same mist-filled ones the golden retriever possessed. Her hands were miniature in size, but were very powerful. And of course, she had a very thick accent which sounded both Spanish and Berggish. Berggish being the native language of Bergalermner, or in other words, Berg world. "Erv courser, you ner thert I'm er metermerphmagers," "Yes, I knew and I'm quite used to the transformation process," said Dumbledore, smiling. "Alrighterm, greaterm. Now we need to get dern to businerss. As I herve anerther placerm to be. Ser, herve you thought erv arrangemernts fer erwer littel wern, Lucía Valentino?" she enquired. "Ah, yes. As a matter of fact I have. I was thinking of having her live with Mr. and Mrs. Herdzwell. They're her only family now. don't worry, I've written a letter to explain the situation," "Bert, Dermbeldorr, lerters dern't always werker. An' wert about perting 'err wit familí thert isern't erv blerd?" "Well, I'm not sure that would work in this case," he answered. "Dermbeldorr, I ner thert Meessers an' meester Herdzwell livey heerr. I wers werching term erl ter day lerng. Tey ern't likey erser, tey weel abuserm an' mistreaterm erwer littel wern. I'm certern erv thert. An' I cern't herve thert herppern," She said shakily as tears began to pour down her face in torrents and streams. "It's the only option I have," "Ner, abserlerterly nert, I'd takey 'err een er herterbeat. She could cerme an' livey wit ers bergers. An' we would treaterm 'err as erwer erner. Raiser 'err to becerme nerbel an' to treaterm everywerner wit lerve an' respecterm. She could atenderm Herlertzer School Fer Witchers an' Bergers. Bert ter bes' erptiern wers berk ert hermer een Santa Trini. Bert thert wern ees gern becerse erv ter circermsternces. I herve to say Dermbeldorr, yer plerners ern't ter ernly werners thert werker," she stated gravely. "Well, the protection of blood is the only thing she has left. And yes, I do realise that. But what else can we do?" he asked "Nert eef ter werner ter herter hers ees strernger. Cern I nert takey 'err?" "I'm afraid not at this point," Dumbledore said gently.

Complete and utter sadness swept over Señora Delenita as more tears flooded down her face. Dumbledore knew how she felt and hugged her loosely; for he considered her a friend, a comrade of sorts. He also knew how much she loved being with Lucía back home in Santa Trini before all this occurred. He had to admit, it wasn't easy being the baby-dumper, so to speak. But he had to do this for the good of the wizarding world, or so he thought. "Do you know what happened to Lucía on that fateful night two weeks ago?" "Yes, I've 'erd erl about eet. I erlser ner thert she hers er sker righter were 'err herter beats," the berg replied, looking utterly forlorn. "Yes, that's true. And have you heard of a boy named Harry Potter?" "Bert erv courser. He wers ter wern who survived ter keeling curse ers well. Ter littel boyerm hers er sker ern ees ferhed. Berth ter skers er shaped likey lighterning berlts," "Well, you seem to know it all. I'm glad you've been updated. May I ask you, how will the baby arrive?" there was a pause, as Señora Delenita sat lost in thought. "Erm, ter baby ees cerming wit er trersted berg friend erv mine whose nermer ees Minni-Lee. She ees cerrently een eagle ferm. Flying across ter sky, cerrying littel Lucía ernder 'err wingerm. She hers herd to fly erl ter way frerm Espain. Bert she weel be heerr sherterly." Suddenly, an ear-splitting bird call shattered the silence around them. Seconds later, they saw an enormous red and blue eagle flying towards them. They waited until it landed on the wall next to Señora Delenita. "Erger, my name is Minni-Lee, bert you may call me Minni. I jerst arrived heerr with ter baby," Minni said shakily as she transformed back into a berg, holding the bundle of blankets in her hands. All three stared at the bundle for a full five minutes, each lost in grief. Minni hugged the bundle tightly, wishing she hadn't come at all, wishing she'd stayed back in Santa Trini. Then, she unwrapped it and they could all see that there was a scar on the baby's chest, which would remain there forevermore. Finally, Dumbledore broke the silence. "I think it's best to get this over and done with. I wouldn't want to prolong this any further. Minni, may I have the baby please?" Minni gave Lucía a tender, loving kiss on the forehead. "Sermer derling, I'll be back fer you. Bert fer now, goodbye my littel derling Luz. Fer you herve always been Minni's lighterm," she whispered, so that only Lucía could hear her.

She placed the bundle into Dumbledore's arms and turned away. Not wanting to watch, for she knew where that baby was going, and she didn't like it one bit. Those horrid relatives at Number 9 were going to treat her like utter dirt. She would never know a mother's love; a father's warmth; a berg's tenderness. And this, Minni found to be the most depressing thought of all. If she could live with them, she could make sure that her little Luz would have some small chance of hope and some tiny moments of happiness. But no, it wasn't meant to be that way, so she was told.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore had stepped over the garden wall and was at the front door of Number 9. He'd tucked a letter into the blankets and placed them on the doorstep. Now, back with the others, he said. "I'm afraid that is that. We don't have anything more to do here," "Yerm, I'd betterr get going," said Señora Delenita. "Me as well," Replied Minni. And with that, the two bergs vanished in a cloud of mist. "Good luck Lucía," muttered Dumbledore as he too disappeared, making sure to restore the street lamps beforehand.

A little breeze stirred the tidy hedges of both Ruina and Privet Drive. Both lying silent and untouched, submerged by mist from the sky above. The last places you would expect magical things to happen. Harry Potter and Lucía Valentino both rolled over in their blankets and didn't wake. Small hands found letters and clutched them tightly and still the two slept on. Not knowing they were famous or special in any way; not knowing they were connected; not aware that in a couple of hours they would awake to the screams of their aunts as they opened the door to go out and collect the mail. Nor that they would spend a month being poked, pinched and punched by their cousins Dudley and Quinnistasia. They couldn't know, that all over Spain and Britain at this point in time, there were people clinking glasses together secretly and saying in low voices barely above a whisper: "Salud a Jarry Potter y Lucía Valentino. El niño quién vivido y la niña quién conquistó," "Cheers to Harry Potter and Lucía Valentino. The boy who lived and the girl who conquered."

Translation.

Just in case you found it a tad bit difficult to understand the accents of Señora Delenita and Minni-Lee, my original characters. Here is a detailed translation of their conversation with Dumbledore. Please refer back to the chapter if needed.

Señora Delenita:

"Sí, por supuesto," ** "Yes, of course."

"Ner, I dare say you didern't," ** "No, I dare say you didn't."

"Erv courser, you ner thert I'm er metermerphmagers," ** "Of course, you know that I'm a Metamorphmagus."

"Alrighterm, greaterm. Now we need to get dern to businerss. As I herve anerther placerm to be. Ser, herve you thought erv arrangemernts fer erwer littel wern, Lucía Valentino?" ** "Alright, great. Now we need to get down to business. As I have another place to be. So, have you thought of arrangements for our little one, Lucía Valentino?"

"Bert, Dermbeldorr, lerters dern't always werker. An' wert about perting 'err wit familí thert isern't erv blerd?" ** "But, Dumbledore, letters don't always work. And what about putting her with family that isn't of blood?"

"Dermbeldorr, I ner thert Meessers an' meester Herdzwell livey heerr. I wers werching term erl ter day lerng. Tey ern't likey erser, tey weel abuserm an' mistreaterm erwer littel wern. I'm certern erv thert. An' I cern't herve thert herppern," ** "Dumbledore, I know that Mrs. and Mr. Herdzwell live here. I was watching them all the day long. They aren't like us. They will abuse and mistreat our little one. I'm certain of that. And I can't have that happen."

"Ner, abserlerterly nert, I'd takey 'err een er herterbeat. She could cerme an' livey wit ers bergers. An' we would treaterm 'err as erwer erner. Raiser 'err to becerme nerbel an' to treaterm everywerner wit lerve an' respecterm. She could atenderm Herlertzer School Fer Witchers an' Bergers. Bert ter bes' erptiern wers berk ert hermer een Santa Trini. Bert thert wern ees gern becerse erv ter circermsternces. I herve to say Dermbeldorr, yer plerners ern't ter ernly werners thert werker," ** "No, absolutely not, I'd take her in a heartbeat. She could come and live with us bergs. And we would treat her as our own. Raise her to become noble and to treat everyone with love and respect. She could attend Herlertzer School For Witches And Bergs. But the best option was back at home in Santa Trini. But that one is gone because of the circumstances. I have to say Dumbledore, your plans aren't the only ones that work."

"Nert eef ter werner ter herter hers ees strernger. Cern I nert takey 'err?" ** "Not if the one the heart has is stronger. Can I not take her?"

"Yes, I've 'erd erl about eet. I erlser ner thert she hers er sker righter were 'err herter beats," ** "Yes, I've heard all about it. I also know that she has a scar right where her heart beats."

"Bert erv courser. He wers ter wern who survived ter keeling curse ers well. Ter littel boyerm hers er sker ern ees ferhed. Berth ter skers er shaped likey lighterningberlts," ** "But of course. He was the one who survived the killing curse as well. The little boy has a scar on his forehead. Both the scars are shaped like lightning bolts."

"Erm, ter baby ees cerming wit er trersted berg friend erv mine whose nermer ees Minni-Lee. She ees cerrently een eagle ferm. Flying across ter sky, cerrying littel Lucía ernder 'err wingerm. She hers herd to fly erl ter way frerm Espain. Bert she weel be heerr sherterly," ** "Um, the baby is coming with a trusted berg friend of mine whose name is Minni-Lee. She is currently in eagle form. Flying across the sky carrying little Lucía under her wing. She has had to fly all the way from Spain. But she will be here shortly."

Minni-Lee:

"Erger, my name is Minni-Lee, bert you may call me Minni. I jerst arrived heerr with ter baby,"** "Aherm, my name is Minni-Lee, but you may call me Minni. I just arrived here with the baby."

"Sermer derling, I'll be back fer you. Bert fer now, goodbye my littel derling Luz. Fer you herve always been Minni's lighterm," ** "Sweet darling, I'll be back for you. But for now, goodbye my little darling Luz, (Luz is Lucía's nickname and means light), for you have always been Minni's light."

Señora Delenita:

"Yerm, I'd better get going," ** "Yes, I'd better get going."


End file.
